


I Shall Not Falter, I Shall Not Crumble

by platinum_firebird



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Violence, Emotional Baggage, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mission Fic, Original Character Death(s), Quests, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29274246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platinum_firebird/pseuds/platinum_firebird
Summary: A quest to rescue a group of escaped thralls fleeing over the plains of Ard-Galen brings several things to light - both about Rog and his past, and concerning the feelings locked behind the walls of Maedhros' own heart.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo/Rog
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: 2021 My Slashy Valentine





	I Shall Not Falter, I Shall Not Crumble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChrissyStriped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrissyStriped/gifts).



> So, another Slashy Valentine comes and goes! Thanks to ChrissyStriped for giving me the chance to explore a pairing I'd never even considered before! I really hope you enjoy this :D
> 
> About the archive warning: the violence section deals with a battle scene and wounds given and taken therein; it begins with the line "The first orc had already been felled..." and ends at "It was almost a surprise when he turned to find no new enemy waiting." if you wish to skip that part.

**_Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. - Martin Luther King Jr._ **

Alone on the shoulder of the mountain, Maedhros looked out over the waving grassland toward the Gates of Hell.

Smoke poured in an unceasing stream from Thangorodrim’s black peaks, spreading a vast dark shadow over the northern sky. At near three hundred miles distant, the peaks were indistinct and blurry under their blanket of cloud - but Maedhros knew well their rough, sharp shapes, cutting like broken teeth toward the sky.

Hearing heavy footsteps behind him, he said, “One would have thought more of your kin would be reluctant to settle within sight of the Iron Hells.”

The dwarf who came to stand next to him gave a surprisingly hearty chuckle. “When dwarves hear rumour of plentiful jewels, my lord, not even our own mothers can hold us back, much less fear of the Enemy.”

“So I have heard. But think not that I chide you; after all, my own cousins live within fifty miles of those dark gates. As I said to the King, the Enemy has not looked often to this range, save for the pass in the north. And you will be safer within the mountains.”

“I hope so! I admit that I myself was wary at first, when his majesty appointed me their leader.”

“The King would not have chosen you if he did not think you capable,” Maedhros said.

“Aye, that is true. But despite your assurances, I cannot help but think that we are closer-”

He was interrupted by the sound of raised voices from below. Maedhros and his companion, Dwilrur, stood on a high bluff whipped by wind, lonely on the mountain’s side; slightly farther below and back was a much wider ledge that the dwarven prospectors had been using as their temporary camp while they explored the caverns that ran like honeycomb through the mountain. Clearly, something was amiss down there.

Dwilrur sighed. “Some of my lot getting in a scrap, no doubt. I leave them for not but five minutes…”

“I am sure Granu will handle it,” Maedhros said. Dwilrur’s second in command had impressed him over the last several days with his composure and level-headed approach to command; there was, it seemed, no dispute he could not settle.

Despite Maedhros’ confidence, the raised voices did not lower. Dwilrur was clearly only half listening to the rest of their discussion on the mine’s position, his eyes twitching ever back toward the downward trail, anticipating the appearance of one of his people to summon him to settle the dispute.

It was a surprise to both of them when the runner that eventually appeared was one of Maedhros’ own men.

“My lord,” he said, after giving a breathless bow. “Um, I regret to say that… Airano and Rog are having, ah, somewhat of an, well, argument-”

“I can hear it,” Maedhros said dryly, waving the man away as he turned to walk back to camp. “Apologies, Dwilrur; it appears my own men are the guilty party here.”

Dwilrur muttered something polite, but Maedhros did not really hear it. Though he took pains to keep it off his face, inside, he was surprised. Rog, with his fiery temper, might easily be expected to get into a shouting match; Airano, on the other hand, was usually far too composed to row with someone in public, especially in front of strangers. His cool head was exactly the reason Airano was the captain of Maedhros’ personal guard. Maedhros did not like to contemplate what might have caused him to lose it.

The situation when they arrived at camp was about as bad as he had expected. It had been possible to make out Rog’s loud voice halfway back to camp, admonishing everyone present for their lack of honour and courage - exactly the spark like to set off the powder keg in a group of dwarves. Indeed, many of them had raised their voices, while Airano could clearly be heard, telling Rog to have some ‘Valar-damned tact’-

“Airano. Rog.”

He had not spoken loudly, but both fell silent upon hearing their names. The expression on Airano’s face was one of acute embarrassment as he turned in Maedhros’ direction - but on meeting his eyes, all he saw in Rog’s face was burning, feverish anger.

Seeing the approach of their lord, the dwarves also fell silent. Maedhros looked about the camp, but on first glance could not see anything amiss. Airano and Rog were clearly both bursting to speak, but Maedhros looked to his personal guard’s second-in-command. “Estendor?”

Estendor’s eyes flicked between Maedhros and Airano for a moment, hesitating, before he opened his mouth. “The lookout spotted some carrion birds, my lord, circling in the western sky. Our hosts say they often circle above escaped thralls who brave the journey south across the plain. My esteemed brother in arms,” he nodded to Rog, “believes we must rescue them.”

The words ‘escaped thralls’ pulled at something deep in Maedhros’ gut, though he did not let it show on his face. “I see.”

Unable to contain his anger any longer, Rog burst out, “I will go alone, if needs must, and let everyone here make their own peace with their conscience.”

“You still dare say such things with your lord standing before you?” Airano spat out.

Before the argument could start up again, Maedhros held up a quelling hand. “Come; show me where these birds circle.” _And stop making a scene in front of our hosts,_ he meant - and clearly all three of his men took the correct meaning, as they led him swiftly up to the lookout’s post on the opposite cliff.

Shading his eyes, Estendor pointed. “There, my lord. About fifty leagues hence.”

“I could cover the distance in little over a day,” Rog said.

Maedhros raised his eyebrows a fraction. “If you ran without pause or rest.”

Rog merely stared back at him, silent and resolute.

“You may want to slacken your pace a little if you intend to tempt others into following you,” Maedhros said, letting a trace of humour colour his tone.

Rog made a ‘hmph’ sound that suggested he would do as he willed, and let others be damned. As usual.

After a moment Maedhros asked, “What is it you object to, Airano?”

Airano, his expression somewhat back to his usual unruffled demeanour, said, “To his quest I do not object; in fact I think it a noble goal. But he had the gall to insult our allies while representing my lord’s interests - not to mention the fact that he will be breaking his oath in setting off without my lord’s leave.” He bowed stiffly and added, “But I also must apologise for embarrassing my lord in front of the dwarves.”

Maedhros nodded, accepting the apology. “Well, you may settle your mind on one point; if Rog wishes to leave and pursue this quest, I will not prevent him. But, Rog, Airano’s objection is valid; I would prefer you not to insult the dwarves, for they prize their honour and feel any provocation on that subject most keenly.”

The curl of Rog’s lip showed exactly what he thought of that, but he said only, “I will keep your preference in mind, my lord.”

Once again Airano looked as if he wished to aim a sharp sword into his comrade’s gut, but at Maedhros’ glance, he held his tongue. Having not grown up in Noldorin or Sindarin society, Rog was not a natural with their codes of honour or propriety; in fact, even now he knew of them, he seemed to disdain them more often than not. But, as Maedhros had said when he was appointed, he had more use for Rog’s strong arm than his silver tongue.

Turning his eyes to the western sky, Maedhros once again sought out the circling black specks. They were a challenge to spot, even with elven eyes, but it seemed Estendor had fairly judged the distance. A feeling rose up within him that was both pain and longing - along with a lavish serving of guilt.

“But you cannot go alone, Rog,” Estendor was saying. “There will certainly be at least some number of orcs following the escaped prisoners; you might not be able to hold them off alone.”

“I will do as I must,” Rog said shortly.

“But-”

“You cannot think to go with him, Estendor,” Airano said sharply.

“Why not?” Estendor shot back. “There are as many Sindar in the dungeons of the Iron Hells as there are Avari; they could well be my own people.”

“You cannot abandon your sworn oath-”

“I do not extend permission only to Rog,” Maedhros said evenly.

Estendor looked triumphant, while a momentary spasm of pain flickered across Airano’s face.

Of course, the person Maedhros most wished he could extend permission to was himself, but he did not have that luxury.

“Why do you baulk at my going, Airano?” Estendor asked, frowning at him. “You said yourself you thought the quest was noble.”

“We cannot all abandon our lord,” Airano said stiffly.

“He is among friends! He will be safe enough with you beside him. And I do not think myself charming enough to tempt _all_ our fellows to-”

Estendor was cut off by someone clearing their throat. Absorbed in their discussion, the four of them had not noticed a dwarf climbing up to the lookout behind them. “Begging my lord’s pardon,” he said, executing a neat bow, “But Lord Dwilrur requests my lord’s presence as soon as can be down at the camp.”

Maedhros fought the urge to sigh heavily, instead merely nodding at the dwarven envoy. Behind him he heard pointed muttering, but the three were wise enough to speak their grievances low enough that he could not hear them.

Contrary to Maedhros’ hope, the agitation in the dwarven camp had only increased in their absence. Dwarves were running hither and thither, several already packing bags; a few moved to approach Rog, and were stopped only by the swift arrival of Dwilrur.

Since their meeting in the King’s Hall in Nogrod and throughout their journey north, Dwilrur had been the picture of good humour. Now, however, he wore an impressive scowl, and his voice was strained as he said, “I would speak with you a moment, my lord.”

Maedhros made a gesture of invitation, and with Airano following silently behind them this time, he and Dwilrur once again ascended to the high point they had been standing upon earlier.

“I must apologise for my guardsman’s rash words,” Maedhros said, as soon as they were out of earshot of the camp, “He was once a thrall in the Iron Hells himself; he feels their plight most keenly.”

Dwilrur’s expression softened somewhat. “Ah. That explains his vehemence, then.”

“Explains, but not excuses. He should have chosen his words with greater care.” _Not that he is known for that_.

Dwilrur grimaced. “Unfortunately, his words have put me in an uncomfortable position; several of my people have taken them to heart. I will be able to quell many by reminding them of their duty here, but a few I fear are set to go and will not be swayed.” Dwilrur heaved a heavy sigh. “One of them is the King’s own cousin.”

“You feel you must go with him,” Maedhros said slowly.

“Thamun insisted on coming here against the King’s wishes. It was only allowed because I swore I would take the greatest of care with his safety, letting no harm come to him.” Dwilrur gave a humourless smile. “As ever, he seeks to make my job harder than it must be. If I cannot dissuade him from this quest, then of course I must go too, and protect him.”

“You cannot break your oath to the King. My guardsmen will-”

Dwilrur was already shaking his head. “But you see, my lord, herein lies the problem. I cannot break my oath to his majesty and let Thamun run off into the wilderness; but equally, I cannot forsake my duty as both your host and guardian.”

“I will be safe enough here.”

Dwilrur looked pained. “If you were to come to harm, it would be a stain on my honour. If you fell at my side, I at least would not have abandoned my duty of care, and could seek revenge on your killer; leaving you here is tantamount to saying that your safety means nothing to me - and to the King, since I am his representative.”

Maedhros was tempted to ask whose honour would be in danger if he were to slip on a rock and fall off the edge of the mountain, but he kept it in. A treacherous little flicker of longing was growing within his heart, as well as the sickening sense of guilt. Without meaning to, he kept seeing the thralls before his eyes; terrified, emaciated, struggling to move at speed as they fled, the carrion birds circling above them. It was how many of his people had suffered, before they had made it to Himring and freedom; how Rog had suffered, once. How he himself might have suffered, had his high birth not made him interesting to the Enemy. The excuse to go, to save them, was there, handed to him on a platter by Dwilrur. He knew it would be irresponsible to take it, but he _wanted_ to.

Dwilrur was clearly waiting for him to say something, and despite everything, Maedhros reached out and grabbed the proffered opportunity. “Then I suppose I had best come with you.”

Dwilrur’s face fell. “I had thought…”

“This will be the easiest way,” Maedhros said, “Unless you can convince the King’s cousin, of course.”

Dwilrur agreed without enthusiasm, and for a moment Maedhros felt guilty for piling yet more worries on his head. But the gnawing pit of guilt in his stomach was assuaged, and the palm of his remaining hand at once itched to grip the hilt of his sword.

/

“It is decided,” Airano announced, an hour later. “His highness Prince Thamun will not be swayed, so we must all venture forth on this quest together.” He did not look happy about it.

Maedhros had spent the last hour supervising preparations. Four of his personal guard would be left behind to guard the small group that had come with him from Himring; the remaining six were to set out at his back. They would travel as light as possible, taking little more than weapons, armour, and waybread.

“How many dwarves will accompany us?” Maedhros asked.

“Lord Dwilrur has managed to talk all but five into staying,” Airano said. “Prince Thamun, his bodyguard, and three miners - as well as Lord Dwilrur himself, of course.”

Rog had been pacing back and forth a short distance away for nearly half an hour; hearing this, he growled, “Then let us go, without any further delay.”

Airano’s mouth twisted, but Maedhros nodded. “This will all be for naught if we come too late.”

This said, the seven of them stood; once they had collected the dwarves, they were on their way.

The dwarves had no horses, so they could only go on foot. It was a steep climb down the mountain, with no dwarven path having yet been cut into the slope, and there was very little speech until they reached the foothills, where the mountains spread into the wide, flowing plains of Ard-Galen.

Rog strode at the front of the group, contained anger seeming to flicker under his skin like trapped lightning. Maedhros knew that alone, he would have moved faster - likely too fast, and exhausted himself in the process. Watching him, Maedhros knew that even had circumstances not conspired to allow the group to venture forth, he would have sent someone to accompany Rog, if only to quell his self-destructive urges. Rog could often come off as simply brash, rude and unthinking; but far more lurked under the surface. He would risk his own life without a thought if it might save others.

Someone cleared their throat; belatedly Maedhros sensed another’s presence, their head about in the vicinity of his elbow. “I am glad you also chose to set forth on this noble quest with us, Lord Maedhros. The vigour with which you dispatch those of orcish kind is said to be unparallelled among any of your elvish kin; indeed, even dwarven minstrels have sung admiring paeans to the skill of your sword arm.”

Maedhros very carefully did not let a hint of exasperation slip onto his face. He had no need to turn his head and look at the speaker’s face to ascertain their identity; even had he not recognised their voice, there was no dwarf he had yet met who spoke in such a florid, declamatory manner. “I thank you, Prince Thamun.”

“It is of course our pleasure, my lord, to have you by our sides as we sally forth…”

Thamun kept going, but Maedhros tuned him out, merely nodding along as necessary. The dwarven prince was by all accounts honourable and courageous, and Maedhros had observed that his people followed him gladly, but he had no ear for poetry. Maedhros had wished at the start of their journey that his brother had not turned down the offer of accompanying him, but now he was very glad Maglor was not here. He was not sure his brother would have been able to stop himself from clocking Prince Thamun over the head after too many extended speeches, thus very likely starting a feud.

Their pace was hard, and did not slacken even as night fell. Eager as he was, Maedhros had no doubt that Thamun would have led his men through the night just as Rog wished, were they alone. But when the moon finally rose half-full above the plain, Maedhros called for a halt. He sensed for a brief moment a tension in Thamun, as if the dwarven prince were weighing his odds of success, if he pushed the matter. After several seconds, though, he seemed to think better of it, and called his people to a halt also.

There was no question of a fire, and even in the midst of summer, the night was chill. Those resting huddled together, thin blankets or bedrolls thrown over themselves, while others stayed awake as lookouts, forming a loose circle around the group.

This was where Maedhros found Rog, when the rest of the sleepers had settled down and the night was quiet.

Nervous tension still coiled in his shoulders, but the explosive energy of that morning was gone. “If you are here to reprimand me-” he started, his voice low and tight.

“I am not,” Maedhros said. They stood in silence for a moment before he added, “I believe I already did, at the camp. If someone has to hear a rebuke twice to learn its lesson, they are not fit for my personal guard.”

Rog grunted. “Understood.”

Again, silence reigned between them. The only sound was the low, quiet sighing of wind rustling through the plains’ endless long grass.

“I understand, though,” Maedhros said softly.

Rog gave a tight nod. “Unlike many. Thank you.”

Despite himself, Maedhros smiled. Rog had the gift of saying much with few words. Aware of his background and the hardships he had endured, the words were a lot more than a simple platitude.

He did not bother giving Rog any comforting words, assuring him that they would find the thralls alive and save them. Maedhros had learnt quickly that Rog was of a similar temper as him when it came to such things; they were both realists. They might find the thralls alive, or they might not; they might be able to bring them to safety, or they might fail. There was no need to vow that they would both still try with everything they had - they both knew that about one another well enough already.

/

The second day passed much the same as the first. The company rose before dawn and began trudging across the plain, their spirits lower now the first fire of enthusiasm had faded. Maedhros walked at the head of the group, his eyes fixed on the northern sky. Still the carrion birds wheeled, meaning there was nothing yet upon which they might feast.

Soon enough Rog fell in beside him, matching his pace. Silence was between them, but it was comfortable, neither needing to spare an extraneous word.

Eventually, though, Rog broke it. “Estendor asked why I was so adamant about saving the thralls.”

Maedhros could not tell from his tone whether or not Rog had found this insulting. “What did you say?”

“I told him.” A little frown creased the space between Rog’s brows. “I thought everyone knew, is all.”

 _Your fame, it seems, has not spread far and wide_ , Maedhros thought of saying - but he was not sure that Rog would take it as the joke he intended. “He came only recently from Hithlum.”

“I suppose,” Rog said, and once again they fell silent.

That evening, though, while they ate their meagre rations at their cold, fireless camp, the subject was brought up again - this time by one of the dwarves. He was one of the three Airano had simply labelled ‘miners’, and Maedhros did not know his name; when he saw that Rog had gone off some distance into the rolling landscape to search for water, he asked in a low voice, “This loud elf - does he have some reason behind his brash words?”

Beririel, one of Maedhros’ personal guard and the only elf he would have called Rog’s close friend, glowered at the dwarf and said, “His secrets are his own.”

With Estendor nodding and frowning beside her, Maedhros thought the matter would rest; but then another of his guards uttered the fatal words, “But Beririel, there is even a lay about it!”

Even as Beririel muttered, “No one wants to hear your Noldo tongue murder an Avarin ballad, Maicaner,” Maedhros knew it was a lost cause. At the word ‘lay’, he had practically seen Prince Thamun’s eyes light up in the dark.

“But surely we must hear it!” he cried, “Seldom are we treated to any verse or song of elvenkind, let alone one about our own most valiant companion!”

Beririel bared her teeth just a little, and Maicaner shrunk back, his eyes flicking between her and the Prince. “Well… I mean, I would be honoured, but we do not even have instruments…”

“I have heard tell that an elven voice is so sweet, even the most beautiful dwarven instruments cannot hope to match its tone or tenor! Surely, we will not be offended at your lack of accompaniment.”

Maedhros was starting to think that Thamun was simply a little starry-eyed over elves in general. He was leaning forward in his seat, clearly eager, and Maicaner, caught between refusing foreign royalty and offending his brother-in-arms, of course looked next to Maedhros for help. 

“We must wait for Rog to return, and ask his opinion,” Maedhros said, which temporarily closed the discussion.

The elves caught the sound of his returning footsteps first, and Beririel leapt to her feet, running into the darkness to have a hushed conference with Rog before he rejoined the group. When they returned, his face was carefully neutral. “You may sing it if you like,” he said to Maicaner, before turning away to set down his full waterskins.

Maicaner had much less than his usual cheer when beginning a ballad; but at Thamun’s urging, begin he did.

The song told a tale Maedhros had heard twice before - once in a letter from Fingon, upon Rog’s arrival at Eithel Sirion, and once from the man himself, when he and his people had first arrived at Himring. That second occasion he remembered most clearly; Rog and a group of tired, bedraggled Avari had arrived at Himring’s gates, seeking sanctuary. Upon letting them in, Maedhros had sat all of them down in his hall and fed them. In the warm glow of the firelight and between mouthfuls of bread and stew, Rog had told the tale. His version had been succinct and to the point where the lay was not, but they both told the same story.

Rog, the leader of a wandering band of elves, had been captured many years ago with his people somewhere beyond the Ered Luin. All of them had been dragged in chains to Angband, and the lay went into great detail about the trials and torture they had suffered there. Maedhros could not help but listen with a sick sort of interest; even if heavily embellished, these were details Rog had left out of his own account - details that fostered a sense of uncomfortable kinship within Maedhros’ own heart. They had, it seemed, suffered through the same tortures - perhaps even at the hands of the same torturer.

On the other side of the circle, Rog’s face was solid and unchanging as granite.

The high point of the ballad was the moment of Rog’s escape - when, pushed to his limit, he had clashed with their orc overseer and managed to wrestle away his heavy, thick iron hammer. The lay painted a a glorious picture of Rog leading his followers to freedom, using the hammer to smash through any resistance along the way - until they finally made it above the surface, and beheld the light of day for the first time in over sixty years.

The ballad ended there, with a beautiful, hopeful image. It did not add the detail Maedhros had heard from Rog, covering their trek through the wilderness to Eithel Sirion, and the badly disguised disdain and prejudice they had faced there. “We came here because we heard you were more sympathetic to former thralls,” Rog had said, years ago in Himring’s hall, and the firelight had painted his face as he looked up and said boldly, “Having been one yourself, of course.”

Had any of his brothers been there to hear it, they might have had sharp words. Maedhros had simply nodded and said, “You are all welcome.”

When Maicaner finally fell quiet, a thick silence enveloped the camp. After a second, Rog’s voice broke it. “It is not the most happy of stories,” he said, his voice holding a trace of dark humour.

No one seemed to know what to say to that - until Dwilrur’s voice answered. “It is not, but it outlines even more starkly the urgency of our mission,” he said diplomatically, “Thank you for allowing us to hear it.”

Rog inclined his head toward him, then stepped away from the circle.

While Thamun and Dwilrur fell to a heated but quiet conversation in Khuzdul, Maedhros followed Rog’s retreating figure with his eyes. A large part of him wished to rise and follow; but what, in the end, would he say? Would they reminisce over the horrors of Angband, or compare notes on which torture devices had been used on them? Recall fondly torturers or guards they had both come to know?

In the end, when he left the fire, he went in the other direction.

He stood alone for a long time, consumed in dark memories. Things he had thought buried deep resurfaced, and he found himself unconsciously rubbing the stump on his right wrist, staring without seeing out into the night.

A rustle nearby brought him back to his surroundings. His hand fell instantly to the hilt of his sword, but then a voice spoke from the darkness. “It is only I, my lord.”

Maedhros relaxed a fraction. “Is something wrong, Airano?”

“No, my lord. I only thought that you might need a second pair of eyes.”

Maedhros could not help but snort. Airano had ever been the soul of tact. “As usual, you are right. I barely noticed you sneaking up behind me.”

Airano drew level with him, folding his arms as he too looked out into the night. “I am sorry; that lay upset you and Rog both. I could have kicked Maicaner when he mentioned it.”

“He cannot help his love of obscure music.”

“His speech is at times far too free, and that he _can_ help.”

“He will surely come to apologise to you soon.”

“Mmm.”

Maedhros smiled to himself in the dark. Even in the midst of this strange situation, having these two by his side was a stabilising element, a piece of normality. Airano and Maicaner had followed him for years, from Tirion to Losgar, from Mithrim to Himring. Whatever came to pass, they would face it together.

Without meaning to, he looked to the direction in which Rog had disappeared. Would he one day be able say the same about him? Now he had the impression Rog followed him out of convenience as much as respect, but maybe…

As he turned his head back, he noticed Airano’s gaze was also turned in the direction of their camp, an ever so slight frown on his face. “Are you worried about something?” he asked.

Airano started slightly. “I- no. Well, a little worried about someone starting some kind of diplomatic incident, but everyone has been cooperative and peaceful so far.”

“We are united by a common goal.” Maedhros narrowed his eyes. “But that is not what truly concerns you.”

Airano heaved a sigh. “’Tis only the normal worry; that one of us will lose his or her life in this endeavour.”

A suspicion started to form in Maedhros’ mind. “Anyone in particular?”

“You of course, my lord, since it is my sworn duty to protect you.”

“Of course. And after me?”

Airano closed his eyes. “It seems you have already guessed.”

Maedhros had, and had been wondering about the ideal time to bring it up. Whether that was now… well. It was probably best to have it talked out before they went into battle. “He would not scorn you.”

Airano snorted out a humourless laugh. “But he would not welcome me either, I think.”

“You cannot know until you ask.”

“As you know, I am not in the business of humiliating myself,” Airano said, likely rather more sharply than he had meant to. He winced and added, “Apologies.”

Maedhros waved them away. “You think too little of yourself, Airano.”

“No… maybe I rather think too much of the many differences between us. I do not know if he would welcome attentions from a Noldo, or someone as…”

“As old as you?” Maedhros filled in.

“You could have at least said ‘experienced’ and softened the blow,” Airano said, the hint of a smile on his face.

“Against these points, my previous answer still stands.”

Airano acknowledged this with a slight nod. “I will… think about it, my lord. But he… Estendor…”

The depth of Airano’s feeling was obvious even in the way he said Estendor’s name, and Maedhros’ chest ached for a moment with searing jealousy. Airano could at least admit, both out loud and in his own heart, the object of his own desires, even if he would not pursue him.

“More importantly,” Airano said, “I could not bear for anyone to say my favour for him had influenced his appointment to your personal guards.”

“I had believed the affection came after his appointment.”

“It did - but you know how people will twist things.” Airano shook his head. “I could not allow my affections to reflect badly on you, or harm his prospects.”

Maedhros sighed. “You think too little of yourself and your own desires, Airano.”

“I am not the only one to whom that applies, my lord,” Airano said, his teasing smile belying the truth of his words.

And was that not just the heart of the issue.

Suddenly feeling the heavy press of duty and position weigh down on his shoulders was, though an unpleasant experience, not an unfamiliar one. “You are right,” Maedhros admitted quietly. “As usual, you are right.”

/

From the start of their march the next day, everyone walked while keeping a hand on their weapon. Up in the sky, the carrion birds circled ever closer, leading onward to their goal.

Maedhros had hoped they would simply crest the next rise in this series of rolling hills and see the group of escaped thralls before them, ready to be hailed and guided back toward safety. Given his luck, he should never have expected it to be that easy.

The sound of a scream reached them first, faint on the brisk wind. Its effect was like the crack of a whip behind a team of horses; at once the party dove forward into a run. “Stay together!” Maedhros shouted above the noise of wind and thrashing grass, keenly aware of how easily the elves’ long strides could leave their dwarven companions behind.

Over the crown of the next hill, their goal came in sight; a loose column of elves, thin as sticks and dressed in rags, were scrambling to climb the hill. Though not in sight, the war cries and raucous shouts of orcs could be heard close at hand.

As they paused on the hilltop, Maedhros drew his sword. “Síladis, Estendor,” he said quietly, “Guard the thralls. The rest of you… with me.”

A mere second after his final word, the first orc came in sight. Bellowing a war cry, Rog was the first to charge down the hill, his hammer gripped in both hands. Maedhros came after, Airano and Maicaner at his back, blowing past the crowd of frightened and confused thralls and straight into the heat of battle.

The first orc had already been felled, his head crushed to bloody pulp under a single swing of Rog’s hammer; now he was laying about with it in all directions, each strike accompanied by the crack of breaking bone. Maedhros swerved a little to come at the company of orcs from the right, out of range of Rog’s hammer swings. He swung, aiming for an orc’s neck, and struck true, severing it in one burst of oily black blood. He stabbed out at another, his sword running straight through the cracked leather of it’s haphazard armour, and then he stepped back to let Maicaner stab another through the throat.

There were, he saw with dismay, significantly more of them than they had been expecting, more than he would have thought usual for simply chasing down a group of escaped captives. He twisted his sword, neatly severing at the wrist a hand that had been trying to slip a dagger through his ribs; the orc only had a second to scream before Airano took its head.

His companions could no doubt see that their fight was of greater danger than they had anticipated, but no one backed away. They held the line at the point where the two forces had first clashed, the defenders stepping back only when the ground became too slippery with blood, or when they were in danger of tripping over fallen bodies. Behind them, Estendor and Síladis, another member of Maedhros’ guard, would be leading the prisoners to safety. Maedhros knew they had to dispose of all these orcs before they too could turn for home - or, failing that, kill so many of them that the others broke and retreated in fear. He swung his sword in another arc, opening a deep wound in the nearest orc’s stomach and grimacing as hot black blood spattered over his hand.

They were hard pressed, driven back toward the crown of the hill. A few steps away, Maedhros saw Beririel take a punch to the face, her nose exploding in blood; the next second Rog brought his hammer down on the offending orc’s arm, making it screech. Rog reversed the swing, burying the sharp end of the hammer straight through another orc, giving Beririel time to stagger to her feet. Beyond them, Maedhros was only vaguely away of war cries and the glint of metal as the dwarves held the left flank of their defencive line.

They were turning the tide, the orc pack thinning, and Maedhros was starting to allow himself to think _we are going to win-_

Then Airano yelled, his face twisted up with horror, looking at something behind Maedhros’ back. A tiny, faint whistle of wind sounded by Maedhros’ left ear, and he blocked instinctively, twisting around to sink his sword through the attacking orc’s gut.

Then he staggered, the sight behind him hitting like a physical blow, pain ringing through his chest and his head and digging razor-sharp claws into his stomach.

Maicaner stumbled, going to one knee, sword falling out of his limp hand. The other grabbed feebly, uselessly, at the spear head protruding from his stomach.

Moving on instinct, Maedhros stepped forward, sweeping his sword upward. He severed the neck of the orc wielding the spear in one blow.

There was no time to stop, no time to kneel down and check on the wide, ugly wound in Maicaner’s abdomen. Maedhros stepped in front of him, defending him, half aware as he stabbed and swung that Maicaner had collapsed gently to the side, into the grass. The pain was there, a screaming, howling torrent waiting to be unleashed, but he kept it back, forcing himself to think of nothing but the fight - the next move, the next swing, the next orc to fall under his blade.

It was almost a surprise when he turned to find no new enemy waiting. The last few orcs were retreating, running screeching in the direction of Angband; and beside him, someone was weeping.

With a heavy heart, Maedhros turned.

He had seen enough of war to know what it meant, that Maicaner’s body was limp and motionless in Airano’s arms. He took a knee beside them, passing his hand over Maicaner’s still, pale face. He murmured a prayer under his breath, wishing Maicaner a gentle, peaceful rest; tears slipped silently down Airano’s face.

The pain was still there, eating at his heart, and for a moment Maedhros allowed it to consume him, bending his head so no one would see the agony written across his face.

He was not conscious of anyone behind him until a large hand landed on his shoulder. He startled, but the hand just gave a comforting squeeze; hearing Beririel’s quiet, anguished curse from somewhere close at hand, he realised the hand belonged to Rog. “The prisoners,” he forced himself to say, voice low and scratchy from exertion and grief.

“I did not see any orc slip past,” Rog said. His voice was quiet, and soft with sorrow.

Beririel murmured something about going ahead to check, and for a little while afterward the three remaining did not move. They held a silent vigil for their fallen comrade; it was short by necessity, barely more than a few minutes in which none of them could bear to move, but to Maedhros it felt like an eternity. Kneeling there in the grass, conscious now of a number of small wounds and bruises, grief eating at his heart, for an instant he regretted every decision that had led him to this time, this place.

In the next moment, he hefted the heavy mantle of a Prince of the Noldor up onto his shoulders once again. “We must move,” he said, forcing himself to rise.

“We cannot leave his body here for the birds,” Airano said, his voice nearly a whisper.

“I will carry him,” Rog said.

Maedhros turned to look up at him, a question on his lips. He had not noticed that Rog’s hand remained on his shoulder; his grasp tightened, comfortingly warm and solid, and he answered before Maedhros could even voice his question. “I am unharmed. I can carry him back.”

Maedhros could only nod. Rog stepped forward, and Airano looked away, smothering another sob as Rog broke the spear’s shaft and pulled both ends out. He lifted Maicaner’s body into his arms, then nodded. “Let us not linger.”

/

Both relief and dread welled in Maedhros’ heart when they finally came in sight of Himring’s walls. The relief was obvious, and powerful, but the dread had a slow, sinking strength of its own, weighing him down more and more as they ascended the castle road and came in through the gates. He would have to apologise to the King of Nogrod for his early departure, and ensure the safe return of his cousin; as soon as the cavalry patrol that had found them reported in, he would no doubt have to suffer through several scathing reprimands from Maglor; and worst of all, he would have to inform Maicaner’s wife of his demise, and organise for his final honours - to say nothing of finding shelter and healing for the fifteen traumatised thralls who they shepherded through the gates ahead of them.

Rog had carried Maicaner’s body nearly the entire way back, only switching out with Airano when the latter absolutely insisted. He plodded along beside Maedhros now, his footsteps heavy with weariness, his fixed expression grim.

“There is a private room in the Houses of Death,” Maedhros said, as they walked side by side down Himring’s wide main street. “Please, take him there. I will send a message to his family.”

Rog turned his head, and the look on his face suggested he wished to speak, but did not know how to begin. Maedhros waited, their eyes locked; but Rog had only just opened his mouth when another voice called Maedhros’ name, dragging his attention away.

He did not have time to think of what Rog might have been about to say until later that night, when all that could be done for the day had been dealt with. It was late, later even than he normally retired; but, though he had made sure to check on them before climbing the stairs to his room, still he could not help but think of the thralls.

A knock cut through his worries. His head dropped slightly in anticipation of more work, yet another problem to solve; but still he called out, “Come in.”

The door opened, and someone stepped into the room behind him. Several seconds passed, and when they did not speak, a slight chill went down Maedhros’ spine. “Is there something wrong?” he said over his shoulder.

“I feel that I should apologise,” Rog’s voice said from behind him, “Though I do not think our quest was wrong, it has cost you so much.”

“It would have cost the prisoners more, had the orcs caught up to them,” Maedhros said. “You could not have known Maicaner was going to die.” When Rog said nothing, Maedhros added, “Maicaner would not have begrudged his own life, knowing he let so many others live.”

“No. But his loss will take a great toll on you.”

“The hurt will be more severe for Airano. They have been close friends since their childhood in Tirion.”

Unexpectedly, Rog snorted. “Airano already has a perfectly fine shoulder to cry on.”

Maedhros looked at him over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

The barest hint of a smile was on Rog’s lips. “I am making assumptions, but Estendor was very concerned for his welfare earlier, when they left the Houses of Death together…”

Despite everything, Maedhros felt a smile tugging at the corners of his own lips. “Finally.”

“I knew I could not be the only one who had seen it.” The moment of levity lasted only a moment before Rog once again looked solemn. “But while he has someone to lean on, you are here alone.”

Maedhros sighed. “I am their lord, their leader. The one they look to for strength. Who among them could I ask to give up that security, just to make myself feel better?”

“You could at least ask.”

Maedhros almost smiled, hearing an echo of his own words to Airano. “I…”

“I have noticed those walls you build around yourself,” Rog said, his voice softer now, “So have many others, I am sure, but who among them would approach you? ‘Decorum’ keeps them shy, and you suffer for it.”

“So you finally admit you have no sense of decorum?”

“I do not think I have ever possessed such a thing.” Rog snorted. “And if it continues to harm those around me, I shall not rush to acquire it.”

There was something tight and fluttering in the pit of Maedhros’ stomach; it took a moment for him to identify it as nervous anticipation. “Then what will you do?”

“Push pass those walls,” Rog said, his voice soft, “If you will allow it.”

When Maedhros finally turned to face him, Rog was a lot closer than before.

They stared at each other without speaking for a while, and Maedhros observed how deep and warm a brown Rog’s eyes were. It was nice, he thought with a slight smile, to actually be almost at eye-level with someone else for once.

“You and I…” Rog started, then trailed off. His hand came up slowly, reaching out, and Maedhros did not stop him from taking up the end of a long strand of red hair. He ran it through his fingers as he said, “You and I have been touched by the same tragedy, suffered the same hurts. I have let it make me angry and brash and rude; you have let it make you colder, more wary than before.”

“How do you know?” Maedhros asked, his voice near a whisper. “You did not know me before.”

“I know - but I knew myself, before and after.” Rog’s smile was without humour. “I was warmer, kinder, before. Better.”

Maedhros felt the slick warmth of blood on his hand, saw the orange glow of fire against the night sky. “I am not so sure I was.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I am here for the Maedhros that exists now.” He wound the strand of Maedhros’ hair around his fingers, eyes glued to the shimmering red colour of it in the firelight. “You let so few people in through those thick walls - but I would be one of them.”

Maedhros hesitated, breath caught in his throat.

Rog raised his eyes, catching his gaze. “I have already sworn my life to you,” he whispered, “I would die for you. I will not crumble, if you lean on me.”

Maedhros heard his own words in his ears. _You think too little of yourself and your own desires._

Now that what he wanted was within reach, being freely offered, why should he not accept it?

Eloquence deserting him, he found he could only nod.

Rog lifted his other hand and brushed the tips of his fingers along Maedhros’ cheekbone - just the barest, lightest touch. Then he leaned forward slowly, and their lips were a mere breath apart when he whispered, “Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
